July
by Pale Rider
Summary: After Voldemort's defeat, Ron made a terrible mistake that had profound repercussions in Harry's life. Five years later, can Ron find the courage to undo the harm he has caused? Slash.


**July**

I hate July. It's the weather, really; I'm not a fan of heat in any month, but July compounds the problem by laying on humidity so thick the air seems to condense on you, as if you're a giant glass of ice water. 

One day in late July last year had the hottest weather I could imagine. The sun had not yet gone down completely, and the evening air weighed heavily on me like a giant glove. It wasn't the heat; I was wearing one of Weasley Enterprises' more lucrative inventions under my robe—the self-cooling tunic meant summer temperatures didn't bother me too much. Nonetheless, breathing the muggy atmosphere was like trying to inhale soup, and the anticipation of what would be coming in a few minutes made it even more laborious. 

"Anticipation" strikes me as the wrong word. I think "dread" would be more accurate. I found myself hoping that some minor accident would come up. Perhaps a wheel would fall off the carriage, or maybe the array of spells that allowed it to move without a horse would fail. The excuse would be flimsy, no doubt, but since I couldn't Apparate within school grounds... 

I was to have no such luck, however. As always, the carriage completed its journey from Hogsmeade to the school without incident, and I was left on the stairs leading to the main door, which stood invitingly (or perhaps menacingly) open. I gathered my midnight blue robes and ascended—there was no point in dawdling. 

The entrance hall held only ghosts, which struck me as grimly appropriate. Our class had lost so many to Voldemort's attacks, suffered more from his rage than any other. But then again, that was only natural, given who our classmate had been. I shook my head, realizing I'd stopped in the middle of the entrance hall while I mused on the grimmer side of my time at Hogwarts. I waved to Sir Nicholas, then ascended the stairs to the Great Hall. 

The long tables I remembered from my youth had been removed for the evening, as had the High Table on the dais. Large letters that spelled the message, "Welcome back, Class of 1999" were glowing on the far wall, their colors slowly changing to complement the sunset that was shining across the ensorcelled ceiling. The front of the hall had been cleared to make a small dancing area, while the rest was filled with small, round tables ideal for sitting and making conversation. 

I scanned the crowd of former students, frowning slightly as I detected no sign of the people I most wanted to see. I wanted to find Hermione, even though it meant talking to Draco. I hoped to run into Dean as well, though I had no idea if he'd even been able to get away from his work in America. And I wanted to see Harry. I had no intention of talking to him, of course—I had no idea how I could face him after the terribly cruel things I'd said to him. Still, it would have meant the world to me to see him doing well. I suppose that, deep down, I was hoping that seeing him in good spirits would absolve me of my shame, and maybe even give me the courage to apologize. 

"Surprised you showed up, Weasley," a quiet voice whispered in my ear. Controlling my urge to jump in surprise, I turned to see just what I had expected, a pointed face with watery gray eyes, framed by slicked-back blonde hair. 

"Hello, Malfoy," I replied coldly. Draco had learned everything from Snape, to the point of eventually replacing him as a spy in the Death Eaters. He had given us the crucial clue to Voldemort's undoing, and Harry had used it. Without his father's corrupting influence, Draco had become much more likeable over the past five years, but he still had a deeply-ingrained nasty streak. 

"You two better not be fighting," another familiar voice said, and I turned just in time to brace myself for the hug. 

"Hi, Hermione," I murmured as I returned the embrace. "Don't worry, we hadn't started fighting..." 

"...yet," Draco concluded, with just the slightest twinkle in his eye to indicate that he had been joking. 

"So," I asked, moving Hermione to arm's length before Draco could get too jealous, "have you met any of the other Gryffindors?" 

"I just ran into Parvati earlier," Hermione said, grinning. "She did quite the double-take when she saw who was on my arm." 

Draco actually grinned at that. "It was nothing compared to what happened when Pansy Parkinson saw us, however," he interjected. 

Hermione giggled, adding, "I thought she was going to explode!" 

"When she called you... that word," Draco said, his expression darkening, "she very nearly did." He fingered his wand under his black robes. 

I found myself grinning as well. A substantial part of Draco's rehabilitation was due to Hermione's good influence on him. The final battle with Voldemort had nearly killed both of them, and during their convalescence at St. Mungo's, Draco had fallen for her. Hermione hadn't taken well to it at first, but after Draco had humbly apologized to the three of us for his behavior in school, she agreed to a date. It turned into three dates, then a relationship. Now they were living together at Hogwarts, working as assistants to the teaching staff. I had no doubt that Hermione, at least, would make Professor long before our next reunion in five years. 

By the three of us, I mean myself, Hermione, and Harry, but I don't really know that Draco ever apologized to Harry. By the time this happened, we had already had our falling-out. I say "our" falling-out, but that's not really fair, because it implies that the two of us had a shouting match. Perhaps if that had happened, things would have turned out better. As it was, I did all the shouting, and Harry just sat there with his head bowed until he couldn't bear it any more and silently left the room. By the time I realized what a total ass I'd been, he'd already vanished, and I'd neither heard from nor seen him since. 

"Well, we've been promenading around for about half an hour now," Hermione said, gathering her brown robes. "I think I'd like to take a seat for a few minutes, at least." 

"I'd like to go grab a drink first," I admitted, eyeing the bar on one side of the hall. "Gotta have something to wash down all this air." 

Hermione grinned as Draco pulled out a chair for her. "I tried to convince Headmistress McGonagall to let me cast a cooling spell," she explained, "but she seemed to think the muggle weathermen might catch on." 

I shrugged and walked over to the bar, ordering a red currant rum, well-iced. The waiter had no sooner deposited it in my hands than I was accosted by one of the former students. He introduced himself as Justin Finch-Fletchley, and reminded me that we'd had an Herbology class together second year. The memory came back quickly; he'd been one of the first to buy into the silly idea that Harry was the Heir of Slytherin, and one of the most embarrassed about it after Harry ended up saving Ginny from the Chamber of Secrets. Apparently, he now worked for the _Daily Prophet_, and I could only hope he'd gained a little immunity to idiotic rumors. 

As Finch-Fletchley started to describe some excruciating assignment he'd had in the Yucatan, I glimpsed a flicker of movement near the doors to the hall. I turned to catch a better view of it, and briefly saw a raven-haired figure in dark robes disappearing out into the entrance hall. It was ridiculous to think it was Harry, but I wanted to get away from the bar, and this was as good a reason as any. With a quick apology to Justin, I stood up, drained my drink, and half-sprinted out the door. 

It seemed for a moment that I'd taken too long, but again my peripheral vision saved me. I saw dark robes sliding around a corner down the hall, and I immediately chased after them. I took steps more slowly and quietly as I approached the corner, keeping in mind my goal. I only really wanted to _see_ Harry; talking to him would dig up too much shame. 

To my surprise, the person I'd been chasing had stopped only a few feet down the corridor, his back towards me. I could now see how untidy the mid-length black hair was, and that the robes were a shade of forest green so deep it bordered on black. The figure ran a bony hand through his hair and muttered, "I shouldn't have come." The voice had changed slightly, but I instantly recognized the wavering tenor as Harry's. 

"Too many memories in there," Harry continued, as if he were speaking to someone. "Seamus, Neville..." he said, and I winced, remembering their deaths early in Voldemort's attack. I could almost see brave Neville charging the Dark Lord, buying us time. "Cedric, Colin, Sirius, _Ginny_..." He wobbled slightly, and I nearly ran forward in fear that he'd fall over. Harry caught himself against the wall though, propping himself upright with an arm that looked far too skinny. "I'm so sorry..." he murmured, and I understood at least part of what was going on. He blamed himself for those deaths... as I had blamed him when we last met. 

I must have made some sound, because Harry suddenly turned and looked straight at me. I had only a moment to take in the sight. The robes disguised Harry's body, but if his gaunt face was any indication he was severely underweight. He had dark pouches under his eyes that his glasses could not hide, and the lightning-shaped scar still shone lividly on his forehead. His eyes were as sharp green as ever, but they were clouded with pain and sorrow, emotions I also saw etched in the lines of his face. "Ron," he whispered, and took half a step forward. Then, before I could say anything, his face twisted with pain, and he vanished right before my eyes, leaving behind only the slightest breeze. 

"There you are!" Hermione said, and I nearly jumped a foot in the air. "What?" she asked, approaching me down the corridor from the entrance hall. Draco was only a few steps behind. 

"I saw Harry," I said quietly. "He was just here, and then he vanished..." 

Hermione looked worried, but Draco looked almost pleased. "So you know," he replied. 

"Draco..." Hermione said pleadingly, but he held up a warning hand. 

"I'm not going to lay off him, Hermione," he said, "I'm as much Harry's friend as anyone now, and somebody needs to get this out in the open." He turned back to me, and said in a voice suffused with loathing, "You're a filthy, traitorous bastard, Weasley, and it's past time you found out what you've done to Harry. I get sick every time I remember how he stood up for you on the train our first year, when he barely even knew you. But after he spent seven years as your best friend, after he gave your brothers the money to start their own company, after he saved your family members time and again, you turned your back on him. What's worse, you _blamed_ him for things that Voldemort did. Everyone we know has tried to convince him that those deaths weren't his fault, but it _never_ works, because he's always got _your_ voice in the back of his head, telling him they _were_. The voice of his _best friend_. You're the lowest filth imaginable." 

"Look, I wasn't myself then, okay?" I stammered in reply. "I was just overwhelmed, and Ginny's death was such a shock... I didn't know what I was saying, and I wish I'd never opened my mouth that day." 

"Doesn't seem to me you've ever bothered to take it back," Draco snarled. 

"Of _course_ I haven't!" I shouted. "How could I face him, after saying all those horrible things? It hasn't been any picnic for me, living with the shame of that!" 

Some part of that little speech must have crossed a line I'd forgotten existed, because Hermione suddenly lunged forward and slapped me so hard across my face that I fell to the floor. "You son of a bitch," she hissed, and I realized that at least some of Draco's characteristics might have rubbed off on her. "How dare you say something like that? Don't you know what Harry's gone through? He barely eats, Ron, and he hasn't slept a full night through in five years. The nightmares keep waking him up, because he can never forget the people who died fighting Voldemort." 

"And he pushes himself," she continued, her eyes flaring with anger, "like you wouldn't believe. He's been an Auror for four years now, Ron, four years and no vacation until we insisted he come here, tonight. He's wasting away, and he's still out fighting the last of the dark wizards all the time because he feels like he has to _atone_ for everyone who died. I can't honestly say he feels like that _just_ because of you... but you're a major reason. And you can't apologize for what you've done because you're _ashamed_? As if that matters, compared to what Harry's been feeling!" 

"Well how was I supposed to know he'd taken me seriously?" I asked. 

"You could have tried _asking_," Draco replied, his voice dripping with malice. "I'm told that's the best way to find things out." 

"That's not all!" Hermione interjected, and I could tell she was still boiling. "It's not just that you filled his head with this... this _stupid_ need to 'atone'. No, you did something far, far worse. He needed you, Ron. The last battle tore him up inside, made him an emotional wreck. All those deaths he blamed himself for wounded him in a place they can't fix with surgeries and medicines. To heal that kind of damage, you need love, the support of your family. You added to Harry's wounds, Ron, but what was worse, you took away the only things that could heal him." 

"What..." I asked, trailing off in confusion. "What do you mean?" 

"Harry didn't have a real family," Hermione said, her voice returning to her more normal analytical tone. "Sirius was the only person who rated as such, and he died in the battle. But he told me more than once that he sometimes felt like he _did_ have a mother and father; yours. He needed them after the battle, needed the support I know he would have gotten from them and your brothers. But how could he go and face them, knowing you blamed him for Ginny's death? How could he ask them for comfort when he believed he'd caused them so much pain?" 

"My... family?" I asked. "He thought that they blamed him too?" 

"Even if he had gotten around his guilt and sought your family out," Hermione continued, ignoring me, "it probably wouldn't have helped. Much as he needed the support of a family, he needed something else more. Or rather, some_one_. He needed you, Ron, and you made sure he could never have you." 

"Me?" I asked incredulously. "Why on earth would he need me?" 

"Because he loves you, you stupid git!" Draco shouted. 

My heart stopped for a moment. The shock of hearing that statement, from _Draco_ of all people, was like having a memory charm released. I saw a thousand shy smiles, felt a hundred light touches, and leaned into a dozen rough embraces, all in the space of a few seconds. And Harry was on the other end of each one. "Oh god..." I murmured. 

Hermione was shaking her head. "How could you not know?" she asked, and I had no answer. I _should_ have known—the hints were all there. He forgave me so quickly fourth year, when I'd been such a petty, untrusting prat. Then just a few months later, _I_ had been the one he had to rescue—the person, as Dumbledore said, that Harry "would be most terrified of losing." I should have known then. He came after me when he thought Sirius Black was going to kill me, and faced down a basilisk to save my sister. I should have figured it out. When Voldemort controlled me with the Imperius Curse, he risked his own life by refusing to take mine. And then, in the final battle, he had stepped in front of me and taken the Cruciatus Curse that almost certainly would have driven me mad. You don't do that for just anyone. He'd given Fred and George the money... 

Wait. 

"Harry... gave Fred and George the money... to start their company?" 

"Oh Ron," Hermione said, now sounding as much exasperated as angry. "Didn't you ever bother to ask how they managed to purchase the first materials?" 

Of course I hadn't. Fred and George asked me to help them expand their company away from jokes and into more practical goods right after I recovered from the final ordeal. I agreed, and accepted the good pay and the great resources available without bothering to ask where they'd come from. I should have known anyway. 

"He gave them his Triwizard Prize money," Hermione explained, and I felt a sick lurch in my stomach. The tournament was one of the worst traumas in his life, and he gave the only good thing that came out of it to my family. I should have known. 

He'd given my family so very much. He'd given _me_ so very much. In return, I had rejected him when he'd been at his most vulnerable point. What's worse, my pride had prevented me from getting down on my knees and begging his forgiveness as I should have done. I just kept stacking mistakes one on top of another. 

Draco was right to feel sick looking at me. Knowing the truth made me feel sick, too. 

My attention came back to reality when Draco spoke. "Much as I relish making you understand the enormity of what you've done," he said, "it's more important to both of us that you help Harry." 

"How?" I asked. "He Disapparated as soon as he saw me. Even if I can find him again, what's to keep him from running forever?" 

"Ron, you idiot, how many times do I have to tell you? Nobody can Apparate or Disapparate within the grounds of Hogwarts, not even Harry!" 

"But he..." 

"It's a new trick he made up," Draco said, interrupting me. "He calls it 'Beaming'. Not as easy as Apparating, but you never splinch yourself, and Hermione hasn't figured out any wards against it yet. _However_, it only works if you have an unblocked path between your starting point and your destination." 

"_And_," Hermione added, "Harry promised me he wouldn't leave the castle before tomorrow morning." 

"So where did he go?" 

"He's in one of the guest rooms," Draco said. "Part of his promise to Hermione." 

"Go to him, Ron," Hermione added, helping me to my feet. "He's been getting worse lately... pushing himself even harder than before. I'm afraid... I'm afraid we're going to lose him." 

Distracted by this possibility, I barely heard the hurried instructions Draco and Hermione spouted at me. I took several steps in the wrong direction to start with, but fortunately caught myself before they noticed, and headed off down the corridor, looking for the landmarks they'd described. 

It had been a long time since I'd wandered the halls of Hogwarts, and I had nearly forgotten what a strange experience it could be. I avoided the switching staircases, but the pictures chattered endlessly as I tried to find my way. I ignored them, looking for the proper statues, picture windows, and suits of armor. I was concentrating on the directions I'd been given, which meant that I was really thinking about something else. 

I'd discovered after my departure from Hogwarts how my mind really worked. It wasn't very good when I was concentrating on the task at hand, unless I was thinking about some game or other. However, I could make incredible strides when I was concentrating on something other than the problem I needed to solve. The temperature-regulated clothing line was a prime example. I'd spent nearly six months researching the magic needed, but I reached an impasse where I simply couldn't imbed the thermostat spells in the threads. I shoved the research aside, meaning not to look at it again. Three days later, in the middle of a game of chess, I realized how to solve the problem. The rest was very lucrative history. 

So as I tried to find my way through the school, hoping fervently that I could avoid a run-in with Filch, my brain started churning through some facts I hadn't been paying much attention. The pattern would have been obvious, if I'd bothered looking for it. For five years, my life had consisted almost entirely of family and work. I hadn't taken a vacation in ages, and my attempts at relationships consistently lasted less than a month. I'd dated guys and girls, and at first glance nobody would notice that they had anything in common. What caught my attention about each one, however, was telling. I'd pick out a girl with striking green eyes, or a man with mussed black hair. Thin faces and small, slender bodies caught my eye, and I found myself drawn to people with unassuming personalities. Every person I'd dated reminded me in some way of Harry. My brain could draw only one conclusion from that. 

I loved Harry Potter. My life had been missing something, a fact that I could somewhat ignore thanks to a demanding job and a giant family. I'd tried to fill the void with my frequent, fruitless dating, but none of the relationships worked out because only one person could fit in the hole. I'd been dumping people not because I didn't like them, but because they weren't Harry. 

"I'm an idiot," I murmured as I started climbing up a spiral staircase. I recognized it as the last landmark from Hermione's directions. Harry wasn't far away now, and I found myself wondering what I could possibly say or do to undo the damage I had caused. 

I reached Harry's room knowing what I had to do, but not how to do it. 

Harry hadn't locked his door, which was a little disconcerting. My expectations of Aurors had been shaped significantly by Mad-Eye Moody, who always took security to the point of paranoia. In my experience, most other Aurors didn't go quite that far, but all of them kept their doors locked no matter where they went. It would have been nice to believe that Harry had simply forgotten to close the latch, or felt so secure in his strength that he didn't feel the need, but I knew better. Harry was neither careless nor arrogant, and that meant he'd left his door unlocked because he didn't care whether he was murdered in his sleep or not. 

Cursing myself again, I quickly opened the door, stepped into the room, and shut it behind me. If Draco had been right about Beaming, then Harry couldn't vanish on me unless he went out through the chimney and broke his promise to Hermione. 

Harry was sitting on the double bed, bent over and supporting his head in his hands. I hadn't exactly been quiet coming in, but he still didn't respond for almost a minute. When he finally did look up, he flinched as if my presence were physically painful. He turned away almost immediately, looking out the window towards the fading light on the horizon. In a trembling voice, he said, "Please leave." 

"I can't," I replied. "We have to talk." 

"Please," he said, "I know... I know I deserve your hatred, for letting you down... letting you all down... but I... I just don't think I can bear to hear it again. Please just... just go." 

"You... you really believe that?" 

Harry made a noise that might have been a cough, but sounded more like a choked sob. "I wasn't good enough, Ron," he said. "I should have been able to stop him... I should have been able to save them... but I failed... I let everyone down..." 

"What?" I asked. "How can you say that? You were the one who defeated... V-Voldemort! You succeeded! Who knows how many more people might have died if not for you!" 

"So many more people could have been saved if I'd stopped him earlier," Harry replied. "Ginny would still be alive, and Colin too. And Cedric, and Seamus, and..." 

"Stop it!" I shouted. "You can't keep blaming yourself for the terrible things that Voldemort did. Nobody has the right to expect you to be perfect... not even you." 

Harry finally turned back towards me, his expression now as much confused as sorrowful. "But you..." he began, and I knew what he was about to say. 

"I did something terribly wrong that day, Harry. I should never, never have said those things to you. I had no right, and you certainly didn't deserve it. I regretted what I had done almost immediately... I know... I can tell how much I hurt you, and I know I only made it worse by staying away from you for the past five years." 

Harry looked completely lost now, and almost frightened. I was reminded of the way he'd been during the sorting ceremony more than twelve years earlier. I took advantage of his confusion to cross the room and squat down in front of him. "Harry," I asked, "I can't ask you to forgive me for what I've done. I turned my back on you when you'd never been anything but true to me. I don't deserve your forgiveness. But please, Harry, please give me a chance to make it up to you. Give me one more chance to try and be the friend you deserve." 

Harry had shut his eyes, and I was certain that it was mainly to try and hold back tears. He reached out and cupped my face with a trembling, almost skeletal hand, and said, "Of course I forgive you, Ron. It was... what you did was what I deserved... for letting you down. I... I can't blame you..." 

I had honestly hoped that he would get indignant and start yelling at me. This was far, far worse than I had imagined. Before I could stop myself, I shouted, "No!" I felt a momentary pang of guilt as he flinched away from me, but I couldn't stop. "Never, ever believe that, Harry! Never! You saved the world, Harry, and there's no way you could do that and let anyone down. You didn't kill Cedric, or Neville, or Ginny... Voldemort did, and _you killed him_! They wouldn't blame you for what happened, and you mustn't either. You mustn't!" 

Harry was biting his lip now, rocking back and forth as if something inside him were thrashing around, trying to get out. Frightened, I put my hands on his shoulders to try and calm him down. This proved to be his undoing. He let out a low wail and collapsed against me, tears streaming from his eyes. I was so surprised I almost dropped him, but I managed to adjust in time to get my arms around him. 

I took a seat on the bed and pulled Harry into my lap. With the close contact, I could feel how gaunt his body was under his robes, and the impression I got was reinforced by his feather-light weight. He had wasted away nearly to nothing, and he practically rattled with each sob. 

And sob he did, weeping as I had never seen him do before. At times he would quiet down, shoulders shaking silently as his tears soaked into my robes. Then a new wave of grief would wash over him, and he'd cry out hoarsely in his sorrow. Hours passed like this before he trailed off into whimpers, and finally fell asleep in my arms. 

Much as it pained me to see him so vulnerable, I was feeling quite relieved, almost happy. Harry had a whole lifetime of pain that he'd never released, from losing his parents, from living with those awful muggles, and from the losses against Voldemort. I felt honored to be there when he finally had his catharsis, blessed that he had chosen my arms to carry him through it. At the same time, I knew that it meant a great responsibility for me. Letting himself experience the pain of his grief was just the beginning for Harry; he'd need someone to help him recover from it. I'd only helped him through the first step so far, but I swore to myself as the last fitful sobs wormed their way out of his chest that I'd be there for him until the end. 

For the rest of our lives, if need be. 

Trying not to wake Harry up—he obviously needed his sleep—I attempted to lay him down on the bed. I expected this to be easy, since he weighed so little, and my constant, physical work in the Weasley factory kept me quite fit. Light as he was, however, Harry was quite difficult to maneuver. Unconscious people are always terribly unwieldy, and Harry proved even harder to move because his hands were tightly clenching my robes. As my legs had fallen asleep during his crying jag, I was forced to move the two of us around using only my arms and back. 

By the time I had gotten Harry's head onto a pillow, I was quite exhausted. The night had drained me emotionally, and the effort of getting Harry settled had been quite a strain on my physical stamina. I was ready to nod off myself, and sharing a pillow with Harry looked quite inviting. At the same time, it seemed like too much intimacy, too soon. We were both fully clothed, of course, but holding Harry while he cried and holding him while he slept struck me as two entirely different things. He had chosen to do one, but I didn't feel comfortable assuming he'd want to do the other. 

As gently as I could, I reached down and massaged Harry's hands, hoping that they would relax enough to where I could disentangle them from my robes. Naturally enough, I got exactly the opposite result. Harry murmured my name, then tightened his grip and pulled himself even closer to me. Tired as I was, I decided not to fight him any longer. I pulled out my wand and extinguished the lamps, then removed Harry's glasses and placed them on the nightstand. Draping an arm around Harry's shoulders, I lowered my head to his pillow and shut my eyes. Sleep came quickly. 

I awoke with a bit of a start the next morning, to find Harry snuggled up against my chest, a slight smile on his lips. Sunlight had started spilling into Harry's room, but it hadn't yet fallen across the bed. I craned my slightly stiff neck and saw the door opening quietly. I grabbed for my wand, but relaxed immediately when I saw a house-elf wearing what looked like a harlequin outfit walking quietly into the room, carrying a jug of pumpkin juice and two pewter mugs. When he turned to look at the two of us, my suspicions were confirmed by the sight of Dobby's face. 

Dobby grinned at me and opened his mouth say something, but I put a finger to my lips. Dobby glanced at Harry and nodded, then tiptoed across the room, hopped up on the bed, and crouched down behind my head. "Harry Potter has his Wheezy back?" Dobby asked, his voice just a whisper. 

I looked down at my sleeping friend and nodded. Harry stirred slightly, stretching his fingers and rolling slightly away from me before he resumed his death-grip on my robes and burrowed up against my chest again. 

"Dobby is happy," Dobby whispered, "Harry Potter missed his Wheezy. He told Dobby so, when Dobby asked why Harry Potter was so sad and thin." 

"I know," I replied quietly. 

"Wheezy must make Harry Potter eat more. Harry Potter has no house, so Dobby cannot stay with him. Dobby makes Harry Potter's favorite foods when he comes to Hogwarts, but Harry Potter does not come often enough." 

I nodded again, and an idea suddenly formed in my brain. I turned it over in my mind for a minute, and decided it was definitely the right thing to do. "Dobby," I said, "Harry will be coming to live in my house. It's not a very big place, but... we can pay you, and give you the same time off you get here." 

I could almost hear Dobby's eyes getting wider. "Dobby can work for Harry Potter?" he asked in an awed voice. 

I nodded. Harry made a small sighing noise and nuzzled my chest again. 

"Dobby will do it!" the elf whispered hoarsely, then jumped off the bed and sprinted silently out of the room, letting the door swing shut behind him. The slight sound of its closing was enough to wake Harry, because he moaned and opened his eyes. 

I was relieved to see that they looked less dull than yesterday, though they seemed far from the vibrant glow they'd had during our time at Hogwarts. He stared at me blankly for a moment, trying to work out who I was without the benefit of his glasses. "Ron?" he finally asked. 

I nodded slowly. 

Harry sighed, the corners of his lips twitching up in a tentative smile. "It wasn't a dream, then," he said. "You really did forgive me." 

"There was nothing to forgive," I replied. "I was the one who owed _you_ an apology... and so much more." 

"Ron..." he started in a strangled voice, but I shushed him and pulled him closer. 

"You can't keep feeling guilty when you're the one who saved us all," I said, running my fingers through his messy hair. "I won't let you." 

Harry tensed as if to argue, but instead moaned softly and relaxed as I moved my hands to start massaging his neck and shoulders. He released my robes and wrapped one arm around me, pulling himself even closer. With his other hand, he cupped my cheek. "I missed you so much," he whispered. He leaned up and kissed me briefly on the lips, then pulled back, blushing furiously. "Sorry," he murmured, "I..." 

I cut Harry off by leaning down and kissing him back. Thin though he was, his lips were soft and warm. I wanted to go further, even more so when he parted his lips in a quiet moan, but I decided to hold back for now. Better to move constantly forward in small steps than to make too large a move and end up going backwards. 

When I pulled back, Harry's eyes were closed again, and I noticed the bags underneath them weren't as bad as they had been the previous evening. "I always wanted to do that," he said quietly. 

"Well, you'll have plenty of opportunity to do it again," I said, continuing my massage of his shoulders. "Starting now, you're taking an extended vacation from your Auror duties." 

"What? But..." 

"You're in no condition to fight anyone, Harry," I said. "Anyone can see you're in bad shape, both physically and emotionally. You need time to heal." 

Harry considered this for several minutes, his body becoming less and less tense as I finished work on his shoulders and moved down his back. That's an advantage of having big, strong hands: even in the most awkward position I can give a mean massage. Finally, he asked, "Where... where should I go? I don't have a real home..." 

"Yes you do," I replied. He opened his eyes again and looked at me in confusion. "You're coming home with me." 

Harry stared at me for a minute, his jaw moving silently. Finally, he squeaked, "W-with you? You... you'd have me? After..." 

"Mum will be overjoyed to see you," I promised. "So will Fred and George—they've never forgotten your gift to them, and they'll be terribly excited to show off their company. And as for me..." I kissed him again, just a brief peck. "I don't think I can stand to have you out of my sight ever again." 

Harry's eyes were filled with tears again, and he struggled to blink them back. "Thank you," he murmured, and then buried his face against my chest again. 

A few minutes later, he regained his composure enough to sit up and put on his glasses. I stood up, stretched, and poured us both a mug of pumpkin juice. Dehydrated as he was from crying, Harry guzzled his down in mere moments. I sipped mine somewhat more slowly, dutifully refilling his mug when he held it out again. 

As Harry was polishing off his third mug of juice, Dobby came bounding into the room, sans the tea towel that usually distinguished a Hogwarts house-elf. "Carriage is ready for Master Potter and Master Wheezy!" he cried exuberantly. 

"Call me Ron," I suggested as Harry stared at Dobby. 

"Master Potter?" Harry asked. 

"Dobby is coming with Harry Potter to his new home!" the elf exclaimed, bouncing delightedly from foot to foot. "Dobby will work for him!" 

Harry grinned weakly and glanced at me. I nodded silently. Harry probably wasn't too comfortable with the idea of having a house-elf, but Dobby's obvious enthusiasm seemed to win him over, and he didn't protest. 

Dobby immediately busied himself gathering up Harry's luggage, which consisted of a large trunk and Hedwig's cage. I noticed that the trunk had seven locks, much like the one that had been in Moody's office our fourth year — I supposed it was standard Auror equipment. Dobby levitated the objects out of the room and down the hall before I could remind him that Harry might want to change his clothes. 

Harry shrugged as Dobby vanished after his luggage, then set his mug on the nightstand and stood up. He swayed briefly, then started to fall over forward, his knees giving way beneath him. I caught him before he could hit the floor, and pulled him upright again. He wobbled, but managed to remain standing by leaning heavily against me. "I guess you're right," he murmured. "I'm not in very good condition." 

"You'll get better," I promised, helping him walk from the room. "You just need some time to get your strength back." 

We took our time getting through the castle, Harry swaying every so often when we passed something that reminded him of one of our lost friends. I steadied him each time, holding him tightly so he knew he at least had someone to share his grief with. It took us nearly an hour to reach the front gates, where we found Hermione and Draco already waiting for us. Dobby, who has bouncing around happily next to the horseless carriage, had apparently told them my plan. 

"How are you feeling?" Hermione said, swooping towards us and gathering Harry into a tight hug. 

"Better," he replied, staggering back against me when she released him. I wrapped my arms around him, both to steady him and to let Hermione and Draco know that our relationship had started to recover. Harry blushed slightly, then half-turned towards me and rested his head against my shoulder. "I'm feeling a little weak, but Ron's going to take care of me." 

"And Dobby too!" the elf called from the carriage. 

"It's just these years of self-neglect catching up to you," Hermione said. "You'll be back to your old self in no time." 

"And causing trouble here, no doubt," Draco interjected, smirking. "I expect you'll give Hermione a right headache, Beaming around the corridors while she spends half the night up researching wards." 

"Don't think I'll be doing much of anything for a while," Harry said as I escorted him to the carriage. 

"I'm sure Ron will think of something to occupy your time," Draco said, helping me hoist Harry into the vehicle. "Perhaps testing some of the Weasley joke products—I particularly recommend the Pepperymints." 

I smirked at that—Draco's ears hadn't stopped smoking for a week. Of course, that was one of the earlier, experimental versions. 

"Just go straight to the Three Broomsticks," Hermione said as I stepped up into the stagecoach, followed quickly by a hyperactive Dobby. "I owled ahead this morning; Madam Rosmerta's already waiting with the Floo powder." 

"...hate Floo powder," Harry murmured sleepily from his seat. I glanced over and saw that his eyes were half-shut; the walk through the school must have tired him out more than I thought. I wondered for a moment whether the only thing keeping him going had been his need to atone. 

I sat down next to Harry and wrapped an arm around him, bringing his head down to rest on my shoulder. "It'll be all right, Harry," I replied as the carriage started moving. "Just a short, nasty trip, and you'll be home." 

"Home," Harry sighed. "Sounds nice." 

* * *

Harry stretches sleepily, disrupting my reminiscence as he arches his back and reaches over the headboard. He's still too skinny, but the past year has at least put enough meat back on him that I can't count his ribs just by looking anymore. He could hardly avoid gaining weight, what with Mum and Dobby constantly stuffing him with food. Harry's strength has returned too, as he reminds me by bringing his arms up around my body and pulling me down into a very tight embrace. "Morning Ron," he whispers as he loosens his hold. He lets one hand trail down my back and cup my rear end. 

"Morning, Birthday Boy," I reply, brushing his hair out of his eyes as I lean down for a kiss. His lips are still soft and very warm. He squirms slightly beneath me, and the hand cupping my buttocks squeezes them instinctively. "You're not usually this frisky in the morning," I comment, settling my weight more firmly on him. "Would you like something before breakfast?" 

"Just... hold me," Harry says, and I gladly comply, rolling over and sitting up with him in my lap. Harry sighs and lays his head against my shoulder as I hold him tight, enjoying the warm contact of skin on skin. The heat and humidity make things slightly sticky, but neither of us really notice. 

"Love you," I whisper into his ear, and he responds with a tight hug. I sometimes get the feeling that he's addicted to my embraces. Even when we're working together in the research facility, he spends half his time in my lap, practically unable to work without my arm around him. Not that I mind—having Harry in my lap for even a moment is a dream come true, and having him working with me rather than risking his life as an Auror is another. 

"Think we should go down to breakfast?" Harry asks. "Fred and George will get worried if we're late to work." 

"I think Weasley Enterprises can do without its top two researchers for a day," I reply. That title's no exaggeration, either: my temperature-regulating clothing line makes more money for the company than anything else, but Harry's Beaming Buses come in a close second. 

"Then," Harry says, lightly kissing my collarbone, "maybe..." He shifts himself so he's facing me, his legs wrapped around my waist, his arms around my shoulders. He kisses my jaw, then nuzzles my cheek. "Maybe I would like a little something..." 

"Whatever you want, Harry," I agree, pulling him closer. "You deserve it." 

"I want you," he says, sagging against me as my hands start massaging little circles in his back. 

"Then we're even," I say, just before I kiss him again. 

Correction: I hate July, except for this one day... 

**End**


End file.
